


Comfort

by flootzavut



Series: Standalone NCIS stories [13]
Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Borin and Gibbs bond over boats and a sucky love life, and end up sharing a bit of mutual comfort. Not really romance. Sexual situation implied. Bibbs, sorta! First time I've tried to write Borin, but this story has refused to leave me alone, so I finally finished it and just hope it works! :) Oneshot. Set post season 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

_**GIBBS** _

He's making a playhouse for Amira when Borin arrives. He actually has a working lock on his door these days, but that's not to say he actually uses it that often. She's a friend, and he doesn't mind her arriving unannounced, but it's still pretty unusual. When he hears footsteps on the basement stairs, he glances up from his work and is mildly surprised to see who it is. She's decked out in a dark blue dress that swirls impressively as she moves.

She sweeps across the room to grab the bottle of bourbon from his workbench before she says hello and takes a swig so deep it even makes him wince a little.

"Borin. You okay?"

She gives him a look that says, 'Bitch, please,' as clearly as if she'd spoken aloud.

"I'm fine."

He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, I can see that..."

Her eyes narrow, and he wonders if he should've skipped the sarcasm, but then her shoulders droop and she lets herself slump back against the workbench.

He doesn't speak, just stands, watches, waits.

Eventually, she sighs. "Dating sucks."

He almost laughs - almost. It isn't that he doesn't sympathise, it's just that to look at her in all her finery, you'd think she would have eligible men falling at her feet, begging to spend time with her.

He crosses the room to stand in front of her, taking the bourbon from her to have a slug himself. "Yeah, dating sucks."

She presses her lips into a tight little smile. "If that's your idea of a pep talk, it needs work."

He lets himself laugh at that one. "Pep talks aren't really my style, Borin."

She chuckles too, and when she looks up at him her smile softens into a wry grin. "Guess not."

He pushes a strand of hair away from her face, then lightly grasps her shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring way. He's the absolute opposite of a relationship expert, but he can at least empathise with her.

"God. Got set up with the most boring man in the world, and not even a glass of wine to make him bearable. I wonder why I bother sometimes."

Hell, he knows that feeling. "Mm-hm."

She cocks her head to one side. "Thanks."

"For what?" His surprise is genuine. This is not a situation in which he feels like he's got a lot to offer.

"Not telling me there are plenty of fish in the sea, or that I'm still young, or that being single isn't so bad." She grins again. "I know people don't mean any harm, but..."

"Next time you hear one of those you might shoot someone?"

She laughs. "Yeah, something like that."

He squeezes her shoulder again, then turns to park his butt next to her on the bench. Another comfortable silence falls, and he's grateful that she's not the talkative sort.

"That doesn't look like a boat," she says eventually, gesturing towards the playhouse

He smiles and shrugs. "It's not. Building a playhouse for my goddaughter."

She gets up and goes over to inspect his handiwork. A lot of the time people don't really seem to understand what he does, why he feels the need to work with his hands. They ask questions, and they're never satisfied with his answers. It's nice to watch someone just look, touch, appreciate, without demanding an explanation. If he was one for small talk he would ask if she had a hobby, since they're so alike in so many other ways - but he's not, so he doesn't. If she wants to tell him, she will, and he doesn't feel the need to pry.

"It's beautiful work," she tells him, looking up. He nods his thanks. She's found the flowers he carved, roses, in memory of Franks. Some people would think it morbid to use the same motif on Amira's playhouse as on Mike's coffin, but he knows Mike would understand, he knows Leyla will notice and will appreciate it. Amira is too young to make the connection, but she's a little girl and she just likes flowers. That's okay by him, too.

Borin walks around the half finished playhouse, smoothing her hand appreciatively over the surface of the wood. "Well, I'd prefer a boat, but I think your goddaughter will love it."

He laughs and she joins in. "Next time I build a boat you can come visit," he says, and means it. The laugh lights up her face and he is kind of pleased with himself that he's obviously managed to cheer her up some, or at least not made her feel worse. She walks back over towards him, stops in front of him, tilts her chin up.

"I'll hold you to that."

He nods. "I'm good for it." He expects and returns the grin. She's one of the few women in his life - heck, one of the few people, period - who gets the boat thing, and it's nice, and it's a kind of solidarity.

What he really doesn't expect is how she leans into him, presses her lips to his, and kisses him hard. For a moment he lets her, even responding a little, then he makes himself pull back.

"Abby," he breathes. He rarely calls her that, it feels weird when he does, but even Gibbs can't address a woman he's just been kissing by her surname.

She puts a finger on his lips. "I know what you're thinking."

He really, really doubts that. "I'm thinkin' I should drive you home," he counters.

She chuckles. "Okay, so maybe I didn't know what you were thinking." She's still standing in his space, one hand grasping his shoulder, and he could, maybe should, push her away.

He's never been very good at 'should'.

"Look, I'm not twenty. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." She studies his face. "I'm not looking for anything you can't give, no strings, no expectations. I just want..." Her voice cracks a little. "I want to feel..." She's leaned in towards him again and he swallows. He's only human, and she is gorgeous, and it takes all his willpower not to accept the blatant invitation.

"Romance between agents..." he starts.

"Not looking for romance."

"Rule 12-"

"I don't wanna date you, Gibbs, trust me."

The humour in her voice makes him laugh despite himself, and he gives in to his baser instincts and leans towards her. Her smile is amused as her mouth seeks his, and God help him, but he lets himself enjoy it when she kisses him again. She links her hands up round the back of his neck, as if she's not convinced he won't pull away again given half a chance, and kisses him like he hasn't been kissed in... a while.

It's Borin who breaks the kiss this time, her eyes dark, her smile mischievous. Her body is flush with his, and considering he is somehow suddenly grasping her hips, he doesn't think he can exactly blame that on her. "You never know, Gibbs, you might even like it."

He can't help the short laugh. "Yeah, 'cause _that's_ my concern right now." He's weakening, and judging by her expression she's well aware of that.

Her voice is low and husky, and yes, amused, when she leans in to murmur in his ear. "If you don't wanna, Gibbs, it's okay, no hard feelings. But..."

She stays in close, her breath washing across his neck, and his hands flex involuntarily, pulling her still closer despite all his best intentions. There's a trace of perfume in her scent, but mostly she just smells fresh and clean, as if the ocean air is clinging to her even down here in his dusty basement.

The problem is that he shouldn't and in his better moments he wouldn't, but he does want to. Oh, does he ever.

She doesn't push, just stands there, thumbs idly stroking the nape of his neck, her soft cheek resting lightly against his jaw. This is a monumentally bad idea, he's sure, but then, that's rarely stopped him before. With a sigh he leans down to brush his lips against her neck, sliding one hand to the small of her back and the other into her hair to cradle her head. If he's gonna do something monumentally stupid, he might as well do it right, he figures, and he could almost swear that somewhere in the middle of the amused chuckle and the pleased gasp and the moan of arousal, he hears her murmur a thank you.

* * *

When he wakes the next morning, she's already gone, but the note on his nightstand says "Thanks"; it's so typically monosyllabic that he laughs, and can't bring himself to regret it one little bit.


End file.
